


Look at You

by casualcastle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Drinking, Drunk Uno, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcastle/pseuds/casualcastle
Summary: Martin doesn’t say anything about it for a while, just watches Jon struggle with a fond smile and his head propped up by his hand under his chin as he leans over the cards. That’s the second reason; Martin won’t stop staring at him.Jon isn’t used to being seen like this, usually that's his job, so to say that it’s distracting is an understatement.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 26
Kudos: 150





	Look at You

**Author's Note:**

> Excited to finally contribute some sweet safehouse content to the tag! While this started as a short one-shot about some drunk safehouse antics it ended up having very little to do with any actual Uno playing. 
> 
> That being said, enjoy! These two deserve the world <3

“Jon? Hellooooo?”

Martin is waving his hand in front of Jon’s face, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. Jon jolts backwards, delayed and almost sending him flat on his back in the middle of the living room. He catches himself at the last second, throwing a steadying arm out behind him. He raises his other hand to bat at the one Martin had been waving, but is far too slow to actually swat him.

He glares at Martin who looks a bit too happy for someone who could have easily knocked his lenses out, “What? I’m thinking.” He means for it to come off as a biting but strikes petulance instead.

Martin snorts, pushing his back further up against the base of the couch, “You’ve been _thinking_ for almost two full minutes. Do you have a draw four or not?” He gestures to the Uno game on the floor, the pile stacked so messily that Jon had actually forgotten what he was meant to be looking for.

He looks down at the cards, then at his hand (which is laid on the ground next to him, face up). After a moment he grumbles a quiet curse to himself and, with a very heavy hand, begins to draw four cards. Martin gives him a cheeky, toothy smile, “That’s what I thought.”

Jon rolls his eyes, picking up the drink he placed dangerously close to the paper cards on the floor, “Yeah okay Sherlock, what’s the new color then?” Martin gives a contemplative _hm_ , studying his own hand which, unlike Jons, has remained carefully hidden. Jon watches him, taking a sip of his drink and tipping it back just a bit too far, sending a few drops spilling down his chin and onto the collar of his t-shirt. He quickly wipes it away with his shirt sleeve, clearing his throat.

If Martin notices he doesn’t say anything, and instead announces, “Blue,” placing a reverse card on the pile, then a skip, _then_ a red skip, and finally a green skip. He looks at Jon triumphantly, a coy smile playing on his lips, “Uno,” he says with finality as he places a green eight on the pile, ending the game.

In the flurry of cards he’d just played Jon hadn’t noticed how close Martin was to winning. He tips his head back with a drawn out sigh, groaning, “Why? Every time we play you always do this.” 

Martin laughs at him, actually laughs out loud, “Do you think I’m cheating? Or are you just upset that I’m better at Uno than you?”

Jon lolls his head forward to narrow his eyes at Martin, “I think that you could just, for once, not treat it like a competition.”

Martin tries and fails to hide his amusement at Jon’s whining, “So you want me to let you win, is that it?”

Jon thinks for a minute, really considering the proposition. It must show on his face because Martin bursts into another fit of laughter, letting his head fall back on the couch cushion, open mouthed and cackling. Jon watches him, and tries to think of what he was going to say. He watches the way Martin’s wavy blonde hair dips away from his face, how his chest rises and falls erratically, neck elongated and face partially lit by the warm glow of the floor lamp highlighting the freckles that fan out from the bridge of his nose to his cheeks. 

Apparently he stares for too long, as eventually Martin lifts his head from the sofa and turns his gaze back to Jon, cocking an eyebrow.

Jon huffs in annoyance, mostly because Martin had ruined his view, “What!? I’m--”

“Thinking? You’ve been doing a lot of that tonight,” Martin leans in closer to Jon, placing an arm in front of him and leaning his cheek on his shoulder, “What about?” He blinks slowly up at Jon, who is suddenly feeling dangerously brave. He allows himself to study Martin for a long moment, taking in the softness of his light brown eyelashes as they half shield his eyes, dulled and a bit unfocused from a night of drinking. 

Jon has never been a heavy drinker and even less a social one. If he did ever find himself reaching for a bottle it was the whiskey he kept in a small locked cabinet in the back of his office, reserved for particularly frustrating, sleepless nights spent in the archives.

But something about drinking with Martin is different. Everything about Martin makes him feel safe. Since living in the cabin everything they do they do together, and while Jon usually avoids things that inhibit his control something about sharing this with Martin feels special. It’s such a specific kind of vulnerable intimacy that they can both achieve completely sober but usually at different times and to different degrees. The haze of alcohol does a good job of leveling the playing field, allowing Jon to fully let his guard down in a way that he knows would be impossible if Martin wasn’t here with him. Martin who, when Jon raises a hand to his cheek, hums softly and closes his eyes in contented bliss.

 _You_ , Jon wants to answer, because for all the years Martin spent cultivating a protective air of gentle detachment he wants to spend 10 times as many carefully learning every expression, every quiet gesture, and all the thoughts, good or bad, that he chooses to reveal to Jon. He’d made a promise to himself the day he pulled Martin out of that endless, apathetic fog that he wouldn’t take any of it for granted. He wouldn’t miss any of it, not anymore.

Eventually he drops his hand, pulling his eyes away and forcing himself to study the mess of cards on the ground in front of him. He swallows the sickly sweet phrases that threaten to tumble past his lips, “Just wondering how you got so good at this I guess.” 

Martin slowly opens his eyes again, “What? Uno? I mean, it's not exactly rocket science you know,” Jon feels him sit up suddenly and looks over to see him staring in wide eyed wonder, “Wait- you _do_ Know, or you could.” He smiles like he’s just discovered a grand secret, waiting for some kind of praise.

Jon laughs a little at that, pulling his mind back to their conversation, “Oh so you want _me_ to cheat.”

Martin nods enthusiastically, then stops to think for a moment, “Well, I mean don’t overdo it.”

Jon looks at him curiously, trying to decide what “overdoing it” means. As if Martin had read his mind he quickly adds, “I don’t want you to get in my head, not that I think you would I just- it’ll be good for both of us to set some parameters, plus I want to know exactly how much of an advantage you have. It’ll make my victory that much sweeter.” He smirks and gives Jon a very sad attempt at a wink.

Jon makes a surprised laugh, letting out a small snort and covering his mouth and nose as he does so. Martin’s smirk falls into a lopsided smile and he lifts his hand to move Jon’s away from his face. Jon lets him and both of their hands fall to the ground, Martin's fingertips warm against his knuckles, “Well I think I can do that. I’ll only Know the cards in your hand and the order of the cards in the deck, how about that?”

After a few beats of silence, Martin refocuses his eyes from where he’d been staring somewhere around Jon’s jawline, “Sounds perfect,” He moves to start reshuffling the deck, giving Jon’s hand a light squeeze before removing it in favor of picking up the scattered cards. 

They have a lot of moments like that nowadays, lingering looks and lasting touches. It’s become quite a familiar feeling to Jon, warm and reassuring, but something still tugs at him every time they part. Something in his head that begs him to chase after Martin’s hand and pull him back into his space, to hold him close and press their mouths together, tasting the vodka cranberry on his lips. But the same voice that tells him what he wants also tells him that it’s not his, that for all he’s done he hardly deserves the companionship they have now. That he’d be lucky not to ruin this too.

Jon shakes himself out of his thoughts, returning to the present.

They sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, the only sound being Martin shuffling and reshuffling the deck. Jon notes the surprising dexterity with which he does it given just how many drinks he poured for himself. If it weren’t for his complexion, which has an even rosier color to it than usual, Jon would hardly be able to tell he was drinking. Though, to be fair, he’s also been drinking, so he’s probably not an excellent judge of that right now. He absently runs his fingers over his knuckles, “What makes you so confident you’ll still win? I mean, technically I shouldn’t be capable of losing, right?”

Martin thinks for a moment, pouting his lips slightly, “I think I’d like to prove that being all knowing isn’t going to suddenly make you an amazing Uno player. Or at least, not better than me,” Martin gives the cards one last shuffle with a satisfying snap, and slaps the deck down on the floor, “What good is all knowing if you don’t Know what to do with the information?” He leans back into Jons space for just a moment, and Jon feels his breath against his ear, a half whisper, “though I’ll warn you, I am _very_ good at distraction.”

Jon makes an aborted sound, quiet in the back of his throat, but he’s sure Martin hears it when he leans back to start dealing the cards, smiling to himself.

Jon tries to suppress the wave of heat that rushes to his face and ears, refocusing his attention to the cards in front of him. He coughs once then picks up his drink, still about a third of the way full, and tips it back, pouring the contents down his throat and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He slams the glass down on the ground a little too hard, leveling Martin’s gaze, “Ready?”

Martin doesn’t seem to register what he says for a moment, staring at Jon in an open-mouthed daze, then shakes his head slightly, blinking, “I-yes, yeah. Definitely,” and Jon isn’t sure if it's to even the sides or to shut himself up, but Martin picks up his own drink, about half full, and chugs it in three huge gulps. Jon watches his adam's apple bob up and down, suddenly realizing that this might be far more difficult than he thought.

Martin sets his glass down with more grace than Jon had and picks up his cards. Jon does the same, sorting the ones in his hand and then considering his course of action. 

It does end up being harder than Jon thought for a number of reasons. The first being that it is incredibly difficult for him to concentrate long enough to actually remember to check which cards are coming up in the deck. His turns take longer than they did _before_ he was allowed to cheat, and he ends up staring at the deck of drawing cards more often than not, trying to blink the inebriation out of his system and will himself to create some kind of strategy. Just because he knows where the cards are doesn’t make the math any easier.

Martin doesn’t say anything about it for a while, just watches Jon struggle with a fond smile and his head propped up by his hand under his chin as he leans over the cards. That’s the second reason; Martin won’t stop staring at him.

He is used to it in some ways; he’s caught Martin more than once tracing his eyes over the scars on Jon’s face and neck, or watching intently as he took the first sip of a cup of tea Martin had made for him. They were never judgmental looks, usually curious and careful. This was different though. Normally the second Jon met his eyes Martin would find something else to busy himself with, but right now he was just… well, ogling him.

Jon would occasionally look up from the deck or his hand to see Martin staring at him with so much adoration in his eyes and never flinching away, like he had nothing to hide. He even had the gall to stick his tongue between his teeth in a gesture of concentration but never directing it at the game in front of them.

At one point Jon almost asks him what he’s doing, opening his mouth to speak only to have Martin snap his eyes from Jon’s down to his lips. He sees something else in Martin’s eyes then, and it makes him drop the question entirely. He swallows, mouth suddenly very dry, and stares deliberately at the pile of cards once again.

Jon isn’t used to being seen like this, usually that's his job, so to say that it’s distracting is an understatement.

The fact that he can cheat is actively making him worse somehow, and he’s miscounting and forgetting colors constantly. Eventually, after the 4th time in a row he forgets that Martin has a draw four he covers his face with his cards and lets out a long suffering sigh that turns to an aggravated groan, falling to the side so he’s laying on the hardwood flooring in total defeat.

He hears Martin giggle and lowers the cards from his face. Martin is sitting up now, knees pulled up to his chest, and he’s covering his eyes and shaking his head sounding like a primary school student at a sleepover. _Cute_ Jon thinks before he remembers he’s supposed to be annoyed. He gives the best frown he can muster, “What is so funny about my misery?”

Martin uncovers one of his eyes from behind his hand, peeking at Jon, and then covers it once again, “Okay I was,” he laughs over his thought, “I was trying to help you! I didn’t think it would actually make you worse.”

Jon starts to painstakingly select one card at a time from the top of the draw pile, still laying with his cheek smashed against his arm. His frown is gone, replaced with a lopsided pout, “Maybe if I was in any state to be using my brain it could’ve helped.”

Martin removes his hands from his face and points at Jon indignantly, “You agreed! I just want to remind you that you agreed, so you _cannot_ blame me for this.” 

Jon smiles up at him, batting his eyelashes dreamily, “I can try.”

Martin rolls his eyes, reaching across the card game to shove Jon lightly on the shoulder and sending him flat on his back. They laugh with each other for a minute, enjoying the company and the warm, safe atmosphere of the cabin. Eventually a sweet silence fills the room once again, and Jon is left staring up at the ceiling, which seems to be turning very slowly and he has to close his eyes momentarily to prevent himself from getting dizzy.

He decides suddenly that it's far too late to be worrying about his glasses, so with a clumsy hand he grabs them off his face and casts them to his side, hearing them clatter against the floor.

“Y’know what though,” Martin breaks the silence, and Jon turns his head to face him, one eye open, “it was achingly adorable watching you try to do mental math,” Martin leans forward as he says it, elbows propping him up off the ground and legs kicked out behind him, shins hitting the couch. 

Jon scoffs, “Well I hope you’re happy. I couldn’t think straight for anything right now.”

“I noticed,” Martin laughs, followed by a thoughtful hum, “though I kind of thought that the Eye would override the alcohol in your system, but that was a terrible assumption to make, apparently. Huge oversight, no pun intended.”

Martin smiles at him, and Jon crinkles his brows in confusion, “No-I mean, yes, also that, but I was talking about you.”

Martin looks confused now, cheeks flushing, “I don’t-what do you mean? I didn’t do anything. Did I?” he looks up contemplatively, like he’s walking through the past 20 minutes or so.

Jon is starting to worry that they’re having two separate conversations, his conviction wavering, “You were-you said you were going to be... distracting me. Which you did, I assumed on purpose, but based on how you’re looking at me that’s um. Not the case. So,” Jon can feel embarrassment heating his ears and he clears his throat. Martin looks the way Jon feels, red from his ears to his neck. He still hasn’t looked away from Jon though.

Martin laughs, a bit strangled, “Oh um-no, I didn’t get a chance to, actually. In fact I’m kind of sad about it now. Not that I’m unhappy with how it turned out because honestly this was equally as rewarding for me.”

Jon cocks an eyebrow at him, but says nothing else as he focuses his attention on sitting up without falling over. Martin looks like he’s prepared to scoop Jon into his arms the second they give out and send him hurtling back towards the hardwood, and a small part of Jon really wants to see if he actually would. He considers it, but by the time he’s thought about it he’s already sitting up, legs criss-cross, and Martin follows suit. 

Jon registers exactly what Martin said several moments after he says it, “Oh? Well...what was it?”

“Hm?”

“What were you going to-what was the distraction going to be?” The genuine curiosity Jon feels outweighs any implication of what that could actually mean.

Martin laughs through his nose, apparently trying to regain some of the cool charismatic air he was sporting a few minutes earlier, “I guess you’ll have to get better at cards to find out.” 

Something flares up in Jon at that: a very familiar, very intrusive feeling. He tries to smile but it’s more of a grimace, his eye twitches almost imperceptibly. 

The Archivist in him says he should take that knowledge, extract it from Martin’s unwilling mind and put it on display. That really it’s his to know; he has a right to know. It’s a thought he has to fight on a daily basis, remember that that’s not what _he_ wants, and that, despite what his body thinks, he will not die without that knowledge. He sighs, wishing his awful curse didn’t make it so difficult for him to register the way Martin’s words drip with anticipation. 

Of course Jon _does_ want to know what he means by that, but he wants to find out the old-fashioned way.

Martin seems to have taken his pause and sigh as a sign of annoyance because he actually does flinch slightly for the first time that night, “O-or not, we can just forget about it-”

“No! No, no sorry that’s not what I was-” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling, “I want to.”

Martin’s expression shifts from apologetic to curious. He tilts his head, “Want to…?”

“I want to- to get better. On my own,” He stifles the words out, feeling completely ridiculous.

Realization dawns on Martin’s face, “Oh! Right, okay, yeah,” he makes a tsk sound between his teeth, “Not like _it_ could really help you anyways.” He makes a gesture upwards.

“Well,” Jon looks at him with a pained expression.

Martin’s demeanor changes. He sits up a bit straighter, suddenly very serious, “Okay, but I’m choosing to ignore the fact that you could _technically_ know everything about me because you wouldn’t. I know you and I know that you wouldn’t,” He sounds so sure of himself, so sure of Jon and his ability to control the truths he does and doesn’t steal. So sure that he makes Jon believe, for a moment, that he’s not even capable of inflicting that kind of hurt.

 _I know you_ rings in his ears, because he does. Martin knows him better than anyone else in his life, not that he maintains many relationships outside of work. They’ve been through more together than any two people should have to go through in several lifetimes, and even when Jon thought Martin wanted nothing to do with him he was still there. Even when Jon was so awfully lonely and desperate for the casual affection that Martin could no longer give, he still found ways to help Jon and even keep him alive more than once.

And Jon knows Martin now, of course he does, but the guilt that wracked him the day he threw himself blindly into the Lonely, searching for someone he’d treated irredeemably poorly for so much of their time together, was only exacerbated by the disembodied voice of his captor telling him what he already knew: _The people you think you love don’t exist._

Jon knew that when Basira told him about Martin’s mom, and he’d wondered pathetically why he never asked. Knew when Martin couldn’t look him in the eyes after Jon struggled to find the words to tell him just how long a six month nightmare could be. Knew when, against Martin’s wishes, he searched for him for hours and hours, eyes closed, gasping for breath, and giving himself what would have been a fatal nosebleed and a brain hemorrhage were his body still allowed to die.

Jon hadn’t known Martin, not for a long time, and that had been a very difficult realization for him to make.

“Jon?”

Martin squeezes his hand, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. His eyes are searching through Jon’s own, looking for any sign of recognition. Martin has moved the Uno cards to one side, he notices, so he can hold both of Jon’s hands between them.

Jon looks down at their fingers laced together, lifting his right arm up so it’s hovering around the height of his shoulder. He admires the way their fingers slot perfectly into place, tries to burn the image into his mind, and then lowers them slightly, giving himself leverage to scoot closer to Martin so that their knees touch. Martin for his part doesn’t move an inch, waiting for Jon to decide what he wants.

And there are a lot of things Jon wants, a lot of things he wants to say or somehow communicate to Martin. He wants to tell him he’s sorry, but he already has. He wants it to mean something this time. He wants Martin to know what it means, that he’s not the man he envisioned in his office daydreams, nor the one who watches him in his nightmares, unaffected. He wants Martin to know him. But then, he already does somehow, despite every terrible thing Jon has done to derail and otherwise turn Martin away from him; he’s still here.

It’s true, he thinks, the people we _think_ we love don’t exist, how could they? But the person sitting in front of him, matching his gaze with such overwhelming trust in his eyes, knee bouncing and giving away his anxiousness, is so vulnerable and so human for him that there is no question in his mind. He doesn’t have to think, not about this.

He feels the aching want he’s felt for months come crashing down over him. It’s more than a physical thing, he’s felt it since he woke up from his six month near-dead sleep. It had almost been enough to knock him over the first time he heard Martin's voice after that horrible endless liminal hellscape.

He wants to know, to understand Martin in every possible way. Jon thinks of their interactions since arriving at the cabin: a soft kiss on the knuckles, a hug that left their hands tangled into each others’ shirts. They were reassuring gestures, making certain that the other was really there, really present. But Jon doesn’t just want Martin to know he’s there. He wants to show him why. 

So when Jon closes the short distance between the two of them he finds that all the menial things, the worries and the questions and the terrifying little thought in the back of his mind that nags and nags, telling him he is not just as wanted, melt away in an instant. Martin lets out a little surprised sound then sighs into Jons mouth, immediately reciprocating. Jon places a hand gingerly at the base of Martin’s neck, running his fingers through soft blonde hair. They stay like that for a few moments, drinking each other in, both cautious but certain and definitely not letting go.

Jon is the one who pulls back eventually, just far enough that he can look Martin in the eyes again. He gives a small whine as Jon’s lips leave his, chasing after them with his eyes still closed. Jon smiles so wide it made his cheeks hurt, to see Martin in front of him so warm and soft and wanting him just as desperately as he does.

Martin opens his eyes, eyelids heavy and pupils dark and dilated. He gives Jon such a sweet, vulnerable smile, a bit crooked as he tips his head to one side, eyes wandering all around Jons face and neck.

Jon still hasn’t pulled his hand away from where it's nestled in Martin’s hair, “I-um. I think it’s your turn,” He tilts his head in the direction of the abandoned card game.

Martin's eyes lock with Jon’s, his smile only getting bigger. Then, in one quick motion he uncrosses his legs and wraps an arm around Jon’s waist, pulling him close, “It is,” he whispers into Jon’s mouth just as he twists a hand into Jon’s hair and draws him back in.

Jon had unfortunately known for a very long time how much Martin wanted this. He’d Known it accidentally, and it wasn’t fair to Martin for him to have that kind of information. It’s odd, that even with all the forbidden knowledge and assurances he held in his head he allowed very few of them to become personal truths. They did little to soothe the anxiety he’d felt for so long, that he was too late, that he’d ruined this like he’d burned so many bridges in the past. 

It doesn’t seem to matter at all now, as Martin presses open-mouthed kisses desperately against Jon’s, running the hand that was holding him by the waist up and down his back in lazy circles. It’s a reassuring gesture more than anything, so in contrast to what his mouth is doing that it makes a small laugh rumble up through Jons chest and onto Martin’s tongue. 

Martin takes care of others first, that's how he’s been since Jon has known him and he’s sure that’s how he’s been for most of his life. It’s something Jon used to despise about him, one of the many wonderful qualities Martin has that Jon tried very hard to hate. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time of course, but something still gnaws at him; Martin, constantly giving himself to others, never seems to quite accept the same level of care when it’s offered to him.

It shows itself in many small ways: moving boxes and boxes of files around the archives while Tim and Jon watched in helpless awe, telling Jon not to worry and sit back down the one time he offered to make tea, even now as he pulls lightly on Jons hair at first, eliciting a quiet gasp, then harder, exposing his neck. It’s getting more difficult for Jon to remember exactly what he was planning to do, shuddering when Martin runs his teeth along the curve of his jaw. 

It takes a surprising amount of effort for Jon to break away from Martin, leaning back just enough for Martin to stop and give Jon a hazy but concerned look, “Too much? I can st-“

Jon gives him a small quick kiss if only to stop that thought from fully developing, “No. It’s- it’s perfect. Really, really lovely actually,” he smiles at Martin again, and some of the concern washes away, leaving something that, Jon thinks, is much more selfish.

Slowly, Jon takes the hand that’s been wrapped in Martin’s hair and delicately slides it to the side of Martin's neck, rubbing small circles against the corner of his jaw. Martin hums, tilting his head to the side and closing his eyes.

Martin takes such good care of him, always has, even when he really, really didn’t deserve it. Jon watches as Martin reacts to every brush of skin against his, how he tries to keep his breathing steady. He wants, more than anything, for Martin to let go, to let Jon be the one who gets to take care of him. It’ll take him a long time to make up for all the times he should have, Jon knows, but he’s ready to try.

He moves his hand at a near glacial pace, slowly tracing the lines of fabric down the front of Martin's shirt. He squirms under the feather light touch, trying and failing to maintain a level of control. Jon is just reaching under the hem of his shirt when Martin opens his eyes, and they are so dark and dripping with want that Jon is completely dumbstruck by the softness of his voice, “Is this what you want? Y-you don’t have to. Um-”

Jon looks at him for a moment, trying to hide his disbelief, “What part of this,” he makes a small gesture to the two of them with his other hand, splayed out on the ground against the couch, “makes you think I don’t?”

“I-“ Jon fans his hand out against Martin’s stomach, cold fingers sending a full body shiver through Martin, his eyes fluttering closed. He moves his hand back up his chest, pulling up the hem of his shirt with it, and admiring the way Martin seems to have completely lost his train of thought. 

“Tell me and I’ll change it,” Jon says almost inaudibly. He’ll do anything, anything to make sure Martin knows exactly how he feels. 

Jon continues what he’s doing, feeling the erratic rise and fall of Martin’s chest, and accidentally grazing a finger over his nipple. Martin whines, arching his back slightly into the touch. Jon stops, watches the way Martin’s brow creases and his eyes shut tighter as he tries not to let himself be adored.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of Martin’s face as he slowly begins to move each of his fingers, one by one, and Martin makes so many sweet insistent noises that he wants to catalogue and store away each of them in his mind, in some corner that he knows the Archivist cannot see, cannot touch. This is his and his only. 

He’d be happy to do this all night, seeing the different expressions Martin makes as Jon tests ways he can get a reaction out of him. And Martin is _very_ reactionary, which is somehow the least surprising thing about all of this. Jon had guessed that he might be and tried very hard not to imagine it when he was sitting across the kitchen table from him at breakfast a few mornings ago. All it takes is a look from Jon to turn Martin’s cheeks pink, or an accidental brush of their fingertips reaching for the same glass. Alcohol might make him braver, but it does nothing to hide just how much he craves every bit of contact Jon allows him.

His eyes never leave Martin’s lips as they part and close, between panting and soft whines. With less delicacy than he’d previously been displaying, Jon circles two fingers around a nipple and pinches.

Martin makes a fist and raises it just before a deep moan rolls up through his chest and out of his open mouth, teeth sinking into the soft skin of his hand and rocking his hips desperately into nothing. It hardly does anything to stifle the sound, but it does make a beautiful picture, Jon thinks, suddenly distracted by the way they’re sitting. He’s on his knees sitting up off his heels in between Martin’s legs, inconvenient for both of them. 

Martin is breathing heavily around his fist as Jon reaches his hand up to remove it from his mouth. He opens his eyes then, and Jon gently moves their hands back to his own mouth, kissing the other man’s knuckles softly. Martin lets out a short, breathless _hah_ , watching Jon examine his now open hand.

Jon makes small circles in Martin’s palm with his thumb and carefully turns it over, revealing bite marks in his skin deep enough to leave an impression. The thought that Jon had done this, the physicality of it, inexplicably sends such a strong wave of lust straight to Jon’s groin that he has to shudder out an exhale, running his thumb over the indentations.

Dropping Martin’s hand he reaches up, wrapping his hand around the back of Martin’s neck, pulling him back up off the couch and crashing their mouths together. He needs Martin to be closer now more than he wants it, needs to feel him in every way that he can, and maybe get him to sound like that again.

Jon grabs a handful of strawberry blonde hair and pulls, Martin’s head lolling back easily and he wastes no time pressing open-mouthed kisses to his newly exposed neck.

“ _God,_ Jon,” Martin sighs, voice pitching up and cracking at the end. He smiles into the crook of Martin’s neck before biting at the soft skin there. He does it gently at first, grazing his teeth over the area and feeling Martin shiver. Then he bites harder, sucking and eliciting a sharp gasp from Martin who grasps at his back, digging his short nails into the fabric of Jon’s shirt and dragging them up. 

He continues to pepper Martin’s neck and collarbone with kisses, lifting one of his legs up over Martin’s and pressing impossibly closer to him, thigh pressed against Martin’s sweatpants. He rocks his hips again, this time into Jon’s thigh and moans at the contact. He doesn’t make an effort to cover his mouth this time, to Jon’s satisfaction, and instead pulls Jon’s chest forward into his so they are completely flush against each other.

Jon grunts having been displaced from his space around Martin’s neck, listening to the other man’s ragged breathing and feeling his head fall onto Jon’s shoulder. He relishes the way Martin desperately grinds his hips into Jon’s thigh and has to stop himself from doing the same. He wants this to be about Martin, not himself.

For the second time that night Jon thinks Martin reads his mind, because he slows the movement of his hips considerably. Jon is about to ask him if somethings wrong when he feels Martin’s knee raise between his legs, and he subconsciously rocks his own hips into the new source of friction.

“ _Martin_ ,” Jon drags his name out in a low frustrated hiss. He thinks in a different context it might’ve been intimidating, but given the way Martin huffs a short breathless laugh and hikes his leg up further he probably didn’t interpret it that way. Jon pulls himself back far enough to look Martin in the eyes, failing to stop his hips squirming at the contact, “What are you doing?” 

Martin, mouth open and shirt collar slid to the side revealing several dark bruises, somehow still has half a mind to sound cocky between heavy breaths, “Returning the favor,” he laughs a bit, tongue catching between his teeth. Jon tries to tell Martin that right now is not about him, but the words die on his tongue when Martin moves his hands down Jon’s back, thumbs resting under his shirt in the soft dips of his hip bones. He shudders when strong hands halt the motion of his hips.

And then Martin freezes. Jon watches as his eyes begin to cloud with worry.

The last of Jon’s resolve evaporates as Martin leans in close to his ear, breath shaky and tone too vulnerable for what they’re doing, voice barely above a whisper, “Do you really want this?”

It shatters something in Jon, to hear Martin somehow still manage to thread a needle of doubt through every word of the question. Like Jon isn’t giving him every possible physical sign of desire, every inch of his body caving to Martin’s touch. It seems so obvious to Jon that he wants this, he told Martin as much earlier. He tries very hard not to think about how intensely Martin must have convinced himself that this was impossible, to the point that he has Jon straddling him on the floor of their private cabin and he still can’t convince himself that it’s real.

Jon very gingerly takes Martin’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over soft rosy cheeks. He thinks he sees the last wisps of doubt disappear from Martin’s eyes as he leans in to kiss him, firm and grounding. He pulls back after a few seconds, resting his forehead against Martin’s, “Yes,” he says with as much clarity and confidence as he can, “Yes.”

Martin smiles at him, and huffs a small sound of disbelief. Jon decides then that there’s only one way for him to show Martin exactly what he means. He pulls Martin back to up to meet his lips, letting all the selfish thoughts he’d been trying to suppress rush over him.

He takes one of the hands that had been holding Martin’s cheek and wraps it around his back. Breaking away from Martin’s lips, he uses it as leverage to grind down hard onto Martin’s raised thigh, letting out a choked whine into the other man's shoulder. He hears Martin give a high pitched sigh, feeling his hips stutter as well. Jon breathes into his shoulder, “I want _you_.”

There’s a pause. It’s almost imperceptibly short, and before Jon knows what’s happening Martin pulls his legs out from under him and stands, removing himself from Jon and then promptly scooping him off the ground. Jon yelps as Martin deposits him on the couch behind them and nearly falls on top of him, catching himself with his forearms at either side of Jon’s head. 

He doesn’t catch Martin’s expression, but he feels him smile against his lips just before he deepens the kiss. They stay like that for a few minutes, Martin kissing him achingly slow, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon _loves_ this. He loves the way Martin feels pressed against him, keeping him firmly in place. His own hands move to hold Martin’s hips, rubbing small circles into soft skin. He feels Martin sigh, content, into his mouth. One of the hands in his hair falls away and he feels Martin tracing lines down his torso, lazy and unassuming. Anticipation coils low in his stomach like a spring.

And Jon doesn’t always want like this. Not like _this._ He thinks distantly that he’ll bring that up at some point, certainly not right now as Martin’s hand comes to rest on his upper thigh, knuckles barely brushing his cock through a layer of fabric. The sensation of it sends a shock through his whole body and he arches his back instinctively, whimpering. He knows what he wants right now, and that's enough for him.

Martin hums, letting his hand hang loosely around his cock. Jon whines, trying to press himself up into the contact but mostly just moving his hips desperately with little success. Martin smiles, laughing through his nose. Jon makes an indignant noise, and fails to sound anything but breathless when he pulls back slightly, “Are you _laughing_ at me?”

Martin smiles wider at that, and Jon thinks he should never wear any other expression than this, than the kind of unabashed happiness he’s wearing in this moment, “I just- I like you a lot.”

It should be the sweetest thing Jon’s ever heard, and it is. It’s so honest and soft and perfectly Martin that he almost forgets where he is, but Martin tightens his fingers around his cock at the same time he says it, stroking him once, and he feels all the air knocked out of him. He wraps his arms around Martin’s shoulders, digging his nails into the fabric of his t-shirt and burying his open mouth in Martin’s shoulder, quieting the name that only partially leaves his lips.

Jon feels Martin’s hips rock against him and then stop, and he makes a quiet, almost frustrated sounding whine. Jon wants to ask him about it, but Martin pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, exposing part of his shoulder and sucking a mark into his skin. 

He stops thinking about anything for a while, just feeling the trail of kisses and marks that Martin leaves across his collarbone and neck and the slow pace of his hand. But eventually Jon thinks of white knuckles and teeth indents on soft skin, and he has an idea.

Taking one of his hands off of Martin’s back, Jon reaches his hand down between them until he finds Martin’s cock, dragging his palm up the length of it. Martins hand stutters and he jerks forward into the contact, sighing an open-mouthed _ah_. 

He seems to get lost in it for a moment, rutting into Jon’s hand as his own falls to grasp Jon’s thigh. Jon watches him, his eyes now closed as he pants and whines, head falling onto Jon’s chest. 

“ _Martin,”_ He finds the name leaves his tongue rougher than he thought it would, and he shivers. He feels Martin react in a similar way on top of him, clenching his jaw to stifle a noise that Jon would really rather like to hear. 

He takes his other hand, moving it up to tangle in Martin’s hair and gently tugging his head back revealing an expression of bliss and hunger in equal measure. His eyes are just barely open, and in the low light of the living room Jon thinks they look like pools of dark, hazy and wanting. He tightens his grip on Martin’s hair subconsciously, “ _Martin_.”

Martin shudders again, eyelids fluttering closed and the accompanying sound he makes has nowhere to go but the empty air between them, a low rough moan that hitches as he bucks his hips hard into Jon’s hand. 

Jon’s hips squirm, searching for the displaced contact of Martin’s hand. The movement seems to remind Martin of what he was doing, and he wraps his hand around Jon, still through his sweatpants. 

The friction of it is good, it's wonderful, but it's not amazingly comfortable, and Jon makes a frustrated growling sound low in his throat, removing his hand from Martin for just a second to guide the hand he has on Jon under the waist of his pants. Martin reacts to it with the same enthusiasm Jon does, and the two of them share a shaky exhale. Martin runs his thumb over the tip of Jon’s cock, spreading the pre cum across his palm and Jon lets his head fall back against the couch, “ _Martin.”_

Martin rocks his hips against Jon, probably subconsciously wrapping his hand tighter around him and sending hot sparks shooting up through his whole body as he gasps. Martin is not nearly close enough to him, so he tugs, definitely harder than necessary on Martin’s hair, pulling him up to meet his lips with a little surprised sound.

Jon reaches under the hem of Martin’s sweatpants, wrapping his hand around Martin and stroking him, not caring how the elastic and the angle are making his wrist burn. The rest of him burns too, lit up by every place on his body he can feel Martin, his breath hot against his lips, hand working him up and down, chest pressed almost suffocatingly close yet somehow still not close enough. 

Martin groans, canting forward so his lips ghost against the shell of Jon’s ear. Their breathing comes in ragged gasps.

He hears Martin distantly, hears his name being said over and over along with a whole host of sweet insistent phrases that he wishes he could focus on, but he can feel Martin everywhere and it’s almost enough to drown him before he feels his whole body shake. He tightens his grip on Martin’s cock and runs his hand up it once before Martin cries, hips jerking forward. 

Their hands go limp at almost the same time, breathing heavily into each other's shoulders.

They stay like that for a minute, breath slowly evening out until the drumming in Jon’s ears starts to dissipate and he realizes that Martin is still partially propping himself up, arms shaking. Jon reaches blindly behind him, trying to find the tissue box on the side table next to the couch. Martin huffs out a laugh, reaching over him and grabbing two tissues out of the box, handing one to Jon. 

He takes it gratefully, wiping off his hand and himself before making a very lazy attempt at throwing the soiled tissue into the bin. It bounces off the rim, landing on the floor unceremoniously. Jon scrunches his nose in mild disgust, but when he feels Martin move to get up and throw his own away he wraps his arms as tight as he can around Martin’s sides, holding him in place. 

Martin sighs, a fond smile on his lips, “Okay, okay.” He throws his tissue at the bin, missing it completely, and noses his way into the crook of Jon’s neck breathing in deep.

Neither of them says anything for a while. Jon feels Martin’s breath on the side of his neck and it tickles slightly, but he’s definitely not going to tell him to move anytime soon. He’d be happy to fall asleep like this, or maybe just stay like this forever with no other responsibility outside of keeping Martin happy and warm. He thinks Martin deserves that more than anyone he’s ever met. He deserves to feel safe.

Eventually Martin moves to hold Jon by his sides and shifts himself off of Jon, who looks at him quizzically, “I’m rolling us over so you stop wheezing like an old cat.”

Jon snorts, “Alright.”

Martin repositions them so that Jon is splayed out on top of him. He’s not as warm as he was with Martin’s weight against him so he burrows into the fabric of his shirt, pressing himself as close as he can.

Martin laughs, soft and breathy. Jon furrows his brow lifting his head from where it’s been resting on Martin’s chest, “What?”

He gazes at Jon, earnest and still looking a little hazy, “It’s just- I feel like a teenager a bit?” Martin gestures between them sprawled out on the couch.

Jon huffs, “Well if you hated it so much you could just say so,” but there’s no heat in his voice, and he reaches a hand up to cup Martin’s jaw. 

Martin smiles at him, leaning into the contact, “How could I?”

It should’ve made Jon flinch, the cliché of it, but the way the words drip with such fondness from Martin’s lips just make him return the smile. After a few moments Martin delicately places his hand over Jon’s, raising it up to his lips, “I think you’re wonderful,” he breathes between kisses placed gingerly against each of Jon’s knuckles.

Jon watches him. He watches his light eyelashes flutter closed, how every muscle in his body seems completely lax, how even now at what must be close to 3am in this cabin in the middle of Scotland, their cabin, Martin’s still taking care of him. He’ll keep taking care of him, Jon is certain of that fact more than he’s ever been certain of anything in his entire life, and the moment he realizes that he feels safe. He feels so warm, and so, so safe.

“I love you.”

Martin freezes, and Jon sees him exhale sharply before he presses his forehead to the back of Jon’s hand. He doesn’t say anything for a while, breathing suspiciously even and slow. Jon’s about to ask him if he’d said something wrong when he feels a single hot tear drop onto the tip of his ring finger.

Suddenly terrified he rips their hands back down to see Martin staring back at him, cheeks wet and red with his bottom lips sucked between his teeth. He looks apologetic, and when he mutters a quiet, “Sorry,” Jon is sure he wouldn’t have known Martin was crying if he wasn’t sitting right in front of him. He says it with the same level of nonchalance as if he’d accidentally bumped into someone getting on the tube, and Jon winces.

“Oh, Martin-“

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“ he shakes his head, wiping some of the tears away with the palm of his hand and laughing once, a bit exasperated, “I just- it’s a lot,” he smiles at Jon again, who still feels mortified that he’s just made Martin so visibly upset.

Jon swallows, trying to figure out what on Earth he’s supposed to say to that, “I’m...sorry? I mean no I’m not sorry, not- I’m not taking it back I just don’t- you don’t have to, um-“

Martin cuts him off with a kiss, pulling back enough so that their eyes lock “No don’t-“ he takes Jon’s face in his hands, “I love you. Of course I do, Jon. God, of course I do,” he runs his hands across Jon’s cheeks, then up through his hair in erratic patterns. 

Jon feels his heartbeat in his ears, suddenly very aware of the lump in his throat. He tries to clear it but it only seems to get worse, and he’s barely able to exhale a strangled half laugh, “It is a lot isn’t it?”

It’s one thing to feel something, but it's another entirely, he thinks, to speak it into existence. The words sit between them, slowly diffusing into the air, gently wrapping around the two dirty mugs sitting in the sink, sinking into the sheets of their unmade bed, rolling up through the chimney and whispering their love out into the empty night sky.

Martin rolls his eyes and tugs lightly on Jon’s hair, “Now don’t you start too!”

He shakes his head, blinking tears out of his eyes, “Sorry, sorry. I know.”

He continues to watch Martin. He isn’t crying anymore, just smiling so wide at Jon that he doesn’t understand how a feeling as beautiful as this could ever be directed at him. If he thought he could still die naturally he might think he’d been in a freak accident and miraculously made it to someplace like heaven. If he could still have dreams of his own he might think this was the sweetest one he’d ever had. But neither of those are his anymore, just the reality he’s been dealt, the only thing that still resembles a normal—albeit mostly unlucky—life.

Martin just keeps smiling at him, and Jon thinks that look is worth all the rest of it.

“You’re staring.”

“Is that such a bad thing? I like to look at you,” Jon rubs some of the remaining tear tracks off of Martin’s cheeks with his palms. 

He laughs quietly, “I like to look at you too. I’ve always thought you were nice to look at, you know. Sometimes that felt like the only good thing I had going for me when we still worked in the archives,” he smiles more to himself now than to Jon, reminiscing.

It’s hard for Jon to think about the way he treated Martin a few years ago, when he still felt like he had something to prove and took all of his frustration out on someone who so obviously wanted nothing but to take care of the people around him.

The institute seems so far away from them now, even if Jon knows that he’s more monster than man anymore. It feels safer to talk about somehow, safer to remember.

Martin comes back to himself eventually with a yawn. He covers his mouth, shaking his head, and Jon yawns as well, “It’s getting pretty late.”

“It is,” Jon says matter of factly. He fists his hands into the front of Martins shirt, trying to warm them.

“I mean it’s like,” Martin squints up at the wall clock, trying to read the hands of it in the dimly lit room, “3:30?”

Jon drops his head onto Martin’s chest, “Mm.”

“We should probably drink some water. Don’t want a splitting headache tomorrow.”

“Mhm.”

“And, as much as I like having you as my bony little blanket, I’d prefer it if we moved back into the bedroom for the night.”

“Mm.”

“...but you have to get off of me first.”

“Mhm.”

“Jon?”

He can imagine the smile he hears in Martin’s voice as he says it, soft and playful. He burrows his face deeper into Martin’s chest, “Hm?”

Martin sighs, and starts to prop himself up on his elbows. Jon makes a sound of disapproval before Martin scoops him up bridal style, swinging his legs over and planting his feet on the floor.

Jon forces his eyes open, not knowing when his eyelids started to feel so heavy. He sees Martin staring down at him, a dreamy grin spread across his face. Jon would say he looks smitten, but the implications of that are too much for him to think about. It’s much easier for him to curl back into Martin, close his eyes, and just breathe, so he does. It’s easier to feel his chest rise and fall, feel where his fingers wrap a little tighter around Jon’s legs as he carries him back to their bedroom, setting him down on the bed and carefully draping the duvet over his small frame. 

He’s nearly asleep when Martin places a small kiss to his temple, and he hears him pad off to the kitchen just as he drifts off, thoughts lingering in the safety of Martin’s touch, his smile, his warmth, before he falls into a dreamless sleep.

\---------------------------------

Jon wakes slowly the next morning, noticing first a familiar comforting weight against his back.

The second thing he notices when he starts to blink his eyes open is a pounding behind his eyes and he shuts them with a wince.

 _Probably could’ve done with that water_ he thinks uselessly. He pulls the comforter over this head and pushes his back further into Martin’s chest, trying to block out any and all light starting to peek through the curtains.

Martin hums, pulling Jon in tighter. “Morning,” he says, muffled by Jon’s shoulder. His voice is deeper in the mornings, right as he’s waking up. Jon absolutely loves it, wants to tell him as much, and thinks that now he probably can considering everything that happened last night-

Oh.

Jon makes a short strangled sound in the back of his throat, face heating up. _Right._

“What?” Martin still sounds half asleep, but there’s an air of concern in his voice as he loosens his grip on Jon’s waist and pushes himself back a bit. Jon immediately regrets his reaction, however involuntary it may have been. He stops Martin from removing his arm entirely by wrapping his fingers around his forearm.

“Oh...okay?” Martin sounds sleepy and confused and Jon desperately wants to turn around and kiss him. Maybe he should. Should he? His head is pounding and he’d really rather not open his eyes or move at all, but he owes Martin some kind of explanation: make sure he knows what Jon’s feeling. It's not like Martin can read _his_ mind after all.

He turns over cautiously, not opening his eyes until he’s facing Martin. When he finally squints his eyes open he sees Martin smiling back at him, obviously amused, “Headache?”

Jon shuts his eyes and grumbles in response, tucking his head back under the covers. He hears Martin laugh, “Hang on.” He shifts around, turning towards the side table and then back to Jon. He ducks his head under the blankets and Jon opens his eyes properly to see him holding a small glass of water out to him, “I was going to make you drink some last night, but you were already asleep when I came back and…” he gives an apologetic smile.

Jon takes the glass, nodding, “No, it’s okay. It’s my own fault really- thank you, Martin.”

He props himself up on his elbows, still under the bedsheets, and downs the whole glass in a few gulps. It doesn’t make his head feel better immediately, but the cottony feeling in his mouth starts to subside. Martin holds his hand out to take the glass from him, and Jon hands it over gratefully.

While Martin’s setting the glass back on the side table Jon pulls one of the pillows down under the covers with him. He wraps his arms around it and presses his face into it, sighing loudly. 

Martin rejoins him under the covers a moment later, “And here I thought you weren’t a morning person on a good day.”

Jon can hear the teasing in his voice, and he turns his head to look at him, squeezing the pillow protectively, “Well if you were expecting a hangover to make me a morning person I’m afraid that’s your problem.”

Martin laughs at that, all bright and still a bit raspy from sleep. This Martin, the one laying with him well into the morning, hiding from the sun, is all for him. 

He pushes himself off the pillow, pressing a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth, then one to his lips once he catches on. Martin hums happily, and neither of them can seem to stop smiling.

They kiss soft and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world. Like there isn’t anything, anyone outside the walls of their sheets. Jon thinks if he could wake up every morning for the rest of his life surrounded by Martin, if he could spend every hour studying the flecks of amber that brighten his hazel eyes, or the freckles that trace lines from his cheeks to the space behind his ears and, likely, down his shoulders and across his back, that he could forget everything else.

He couldn’t, of course he couldn’t, but Martin is warm as he wraps his arm around him and fans his fingers across his lower back, pulling him in close. Martin loves him, and for the first time in a long time Jon lets himself think that he could have something like this.

He could let himself have something good.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
